


for shade to shade will come too drowsily

by BlackBlood1872



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddling, Depressive Episode, Derealization, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Themes, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Tea, author-typical soft melancholy tones, jon takes care of martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27170155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872
Summary: Martin isn't lost. He's just… quiet. Quiet in his mind, under his skin. He feels small inside his body, like the tiniest matryoshka, wrapped in cotton and bundled away.It's been weeks since they left the Institute, since they started living in this house hidden in the Scottish Highlands. As time passes, they settle into the ease of it all.Some days are worse than others.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 140





	for shade to shade will come too drowsily

**Author's Note:**

> Martin caught me in one of my sad/might-be-depression moods and it's just projection hours here y'all. I'm also touch-starved and wish I had a Jon of my own to hold me, kthnxbye.
> 
> Title from John Keats' poem Ode on Melancholy.

It's not that Martin goes away. He doesn't find himself in some misty place, left alone and bid to wander. He doesn't become lost, in that he is somewhere else with no path home.

He isn't cold, or numb, or even particularly sad. He's just… quiet. Quiet in his mind, under his skin. In how he reacts, just a second slow. The quiet settles his thoughts to a murmur; still there but distant, unimportant.

He feels small inside his body. Like he's the tiniest matryoshka, wrapped in cotton and bundled away.

He breathes slowly, steadily. There's no hurry. He stands at the counter and looks at the kettle, but doesn't move to fill it. He isn't hungry. He is thirsty, but he doesn't know what he wants to drink. None of the options are right.

He sits down. Folds his arms on the table and rests his cheek against them. He closes his eyes.

Jon lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, some time later. Martin doesn't know how long. It doesn't matter. He opens his eyes and stares straight ahead. He can see his arm, the edge of the table. Parts of the kitchen beyond that. He can't see Jon.

"Martin?"

Martin hums. There's nothing to the sound. It's just a noise.

Jon's hand moves to his hair, lightly carding through the strands, and Martin closes his eyes again.

"Are you alright?" he sounds worried, in a sad, knowing way.

"Tired," Martin mumbles, even though that isn't it. He's not sleepy. He's fully awake. But the thought of standing again, of moving through this house and doing… anything, makes his bones feel ten times heavier. He feels sore, like he's just woken from half a days sleep, like his body doesn't know how to exist in the waking world anymore.

The hand returns to his back, sweeping across the full breadth of his shoulders. Tip to tip. It's so warm. He thinks he forgot how warm contact can be. He breathes a little deeper, relaxing. He wasn't tense before, he doesn't think, but the heat loosens something in his muscles. He tucks his face further into the crook of his arm.

"You don't want to sleep here," Jon says. "It'll be hell on your back."

"I'm not sleeping," Martin tells him, because he isn't. He's just hiding. The world is easier to deal with when he uses fewer of his senses. Everything still feels two-dimensional, here, but it's easier if he doesn't have to see it.

"I'll make some tea," Jon says, and the hand leaves. Martin wishes he could feel enough to miss it.

He doesn't fall asleep, but he doesn't feel entirely awake. Adrift. Time passes but he can't follow it, and the quiet noise of Jon moving about the kitchen reaches him as if through fog. It's not the same as the beach, the endless stretches of inconsequential space, the sky and everything more than a metre away shrouded by the mist. It's not the same, but it's similar. A familiar quiet. He doesn't have to feel here. He's free to breathe, just breathe, outside the grip of worry about the future. Things he should be doing, things he should prepare for. None of it matters.

The hand returns to his shoulder, alongside the sound of ceramic taping wood. He lifts his head, blinking slowly, and stares at the cup of tea in front of him for a blank moment. He wraps his hands around it, drawing it closer, because that's what you're supposed to do. The stream warms his face, sweet flavoured humidity.

He drinks. He can't identify the blend. He knows it's tea, based on context cues, but if he closes his eyes, it's nothing more distinct than _warm_.

"Thank you," Martin says, belatedly, once he remembers how to.

"It's no problem," Jon tells him. He sits on the opposite side of the small table with his own mug.

Silence settles in the room, like dust undisturbed. They drink their tea, Martin only remembering to do so when he sees Jon lift his cup. Eventually, his runs dry. The liquid in Martin's is cool, the ceramic cold.

"Sorry," he whispers. "I know I'm not…" _the best person to talk to right now_. He means to finish the sentence out loud, but his voice loses substance the longer he speaks, and he can't make himself form the rest of the words. His thoughts disperse like mist. He gazes into his half-empty mug, lost in the murky depths. He doesn't really see it, the color only a distant background, focus gone as he stares into nothing. It feels like ages before he blinks, and the image of what he wasn't not seeing falls apart.

There's a hand next to the cup. Not his, though they're both still there. Jon's, curled lightly around one of his own, thumb brushing over the skin. His fingertips kneed gently at his palm.

Martin looks up at him, blinking slowly. Jon smiles, quiet and fond, and Martin can't help but smile back. It feels vapour thin, muscles barely registering the tug. He isn't sure if it's big enough to see. Jon holds his hand a little tighter, because of course he can see it. He always can.

Jon stands, but keeps their hands together. "Come on," he says, leading Martin to join him. He does, though his body seems to grow heavier the higher he gets, like gravity's fighting to keep him seated.

 _Where are we going_ , he wants to ask, but the curiosity feels miles away. He gets his answer soon enough, the cottage only so large. Jon leads him back to their room and Martin considers protesting. He only just got up. He's not tired, not like that.

Jon shakes his head, an amused smile brightening his face. As if he heard all of Martin's unvoiced complaints.

"I want to hold you," Jon says simply, and does so. They lay above the covers, and Jon arranges them so Martin's head is tucked under his chin, his arms wrapped around him. One hand rubs his back, while the other plays with the fluffy hairs at the base of his neck. Martin closes his eyes, snuggling closer. Slowly, because the honey thickness of time and the fuzz beneath his skin impede him, Martin curls his own arm around Jon's waist.

He doesn't sleep, but he drifts off, content inside this cocoon of human warmth. The sound of Jon's heart reminds his own to beat, the sound of his breath incitement to match it. He still feels slightly unreal, entirely unconcerned about that distance. He thinks he'll be able to find his way back to himself, now, though, anchored as he is by someone who loves him. Someone he loves. It makes him want to want again, to step back into the world.

And he will. He always does. Martin isn't lost, because he knows the way back. It takes some time to convince himself to take those steps, but that's alright. He has time.

Jon will be there waiting for him.


End file.
